


Pretty Little Things

by avesnongrata



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Denial of Feelings, F/F, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:39:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5933646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avesnongrata/pseuds/avesnongrata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You didn't come to my solstice dinner party. I sent you an invitation, and you didn't show up."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isabela

Isabela stares, bewildered, at the card in her hand. It's an invitation, a pretty little thing with feminine, almost elegant penmanship and simple yet attractive drawings of traditional winter greenery along the edges.

She tries - and fails - to imagine Aveline scratching away at a whole stack of these in her spare time, the quill held firmly in her work-worn hands, her brow furrowed in concentration. Perhaps she had Donnic write all the invitations for her. She'll have to ask the next time she sees her, to get a rise out of her, if nothing else.

_A dinner party_. Isabela laughs to herself, refusing to admit just how bitter she sounds.

It's not so much that the party itself is laughable, but the notion that Aveline would actually want her to attend certainly is. Perhaps the invitation was just a formality - a nod to the considerable amount of time the two of them spent tagging along at Hawke's heels - and nothing more. Perhaps the delivery boy got mixed up and gave her the invitation intended for Varric, but no, that is indeed her name penned across the top of the card.

Ridiculous. Isabela has no place in Aveline's home. True, she's spent her fair share of time bothering Aveline in her office in the viscount's keep, but that's different. Those visits are always Isabela's idea, and the gravelly, borderline hostile tone of Aveline's voice, while tremendously entertaining, always makes it very clear that Isabela is not welcome in the slightest. So why on earth would Aveline invite her into her home, of all places?

For a moment, Isabela considers tossing the invitation into the fire. It's not like she'd actually attend this party, welcome or no. Such sentimental family gatherings really aren't her thing. Surely she won't even be missed, with Hawke, Merrill, and the others all trying to make nice with Aveline's colleagues (the ones who have the balls to actually show up, that is). That mix is sure to be entertaining enough for one evening. There's no need for a loudmouthed, rough-mannered pirate to ruin everyone's good time.

Not even if Aveline is sure to scold her in that low, dangerous voice of hers. Aveline, with her flashing eyes and strong, clenched jaw. What would it be like to see her let her hair down a little? Does she relax - does she _smile_ \- when Isabela isn't there to get under her skin?

That settles it. She won't go. The invitation was just a formality anyway. Perhaps it's best if she talks to some whiskey about this and tries to put the whole thing behind her.

But first, Isabela tucks the invitation safely between the pages of the book beside her bed. It's too pretty a thing to burn.


	2. Aveline

It's well past midnight when Aveline finally sinks into her chair by the hearth with an exhausted but satisfied groan. The party, like the fire, dwindled down to embers not long ago, leaving only Hawke and Merrill to pick over the leftovers. Eventually Aveline will need to shoo them away so she can finish cleaning up, but for now she’s content to watch them flirt and tease each other while she rests her aching feet. An entire day of cleaning and cooking and baking and entertaining easily rivals a double shift of guard duty. Perhaps she can blame the exhaustion for the way her stomach sinks and her eyes start to prickle as she glances at the door for the hundredth time that night.

_This is absurd,_ she thinks to herself. Everyone had more than their fill of food, wine, stories, and companionship. By all accounts, the party was a complete success. One no-show does not change that. One imprudent, shameless, ill-mannered no-show of a pirate should _not_ have preoccupied her mind all evening, and yet that’s exactly what happened.

Earlier in the evening, while she passed around cheeses, smoked meats, and dried fruits from the summer months, it was easy to convince herself that Isabela merely intended to be fashionably late. Aveline had her hands full making sure Hawke and Varric didn’t antagonize Donnic, Brennan, and the other guardsmen too much, but still she kept one eye on the door. If anyone noticed her distraction, they didn’t say anything about it.

Perhaps, Aveline reasoned, she’d gotten waylaid and would be along closer to dinnertime. That hope quickly dwindled once the meal was underway. The hearty stew of beef, root vegetables, and dark ale was a favorite of hers from Ferelden. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon getting it just right, lest it turn to the monochromatic paste that made Ferelden inns so infamous. She was at one time Orlesian, after all. The fresh bread she’d baked to go with it came out perfectly, and she couldn’t have been more proud of herself.

_Well, nearly._

Aveline even allowed herself a brief moment of alarm later in the evening, in the midst of hot mulled wine and one of Varric’s more outlandish tales. What if something happened? What if she was in trouble and needed their help?

_Ridiculous._ Isabela can take care of herself. She probably had a more appealing invitation. One that involved cheap liquor and considerably less clothing, no doubt. Her lip curled into her habitual expression of... something. Distaste? Disapproval? Aveline clenched her jaw and did her best to ignore the fact that her mind, unbidden, offered up the word 'jealousy'.

At last, Hawke and Merrill begin making their way towards the door, interrupting her train of thought. All of a sudden, the full weight of _she isn't coming_ settles on Aveline's chest, heavier than any plate armor. It seems to take all her strength to get to her feet again to see them off.

Hawke, damn her, takes notice. “Everything alright?”

Aveline offers what she hopes is a convincing smile. “I’m worn out. That’s all.”

Clearly unconvinced, Hawke raises an eyebrow. Before she can say anything, though, Aveline surprises all three of them by swatting Merrill’s hand away from the last of the desserts.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” Aveline covers quickly.

Merrill argues, blushing slightly. “No I won’t! Well, maybe I will, but it’ll be well worth it. They’re just too pretty to resist.”

 “Come on, we ought to get out of Aveline’s hair,” Hawke chuckles affectionately, judiciously steering Merrill towards the door and whispering something in her ear that turns her blush about four shades darker. Aveline is all too glad to latch the door behind them.

Unfortunately, that means Aveline is left alone, glaring at these two remaining blight-taken cakes. Merrill was not wrong, they are pretty little things, if she does say so herself: rich and dark, cut small and neat in the Orlesian style and covered in creamy caramel. She'd decorated each one by hand with a dusting of rough salt crystals that shone like ice. It had taken her a long time to track down a merchant who stocked Rivaini sea salt, but the final product was worth the wait (and the price). She had been so proud of them, but somehow all that effort seems frivolous now.

She should have let Merrill take them. Maker forgive her, she should throw them on the dying fire. If that damned woman couldn't be bothered to show up and eat her share, it would serve her right!

_No,_ Aveline decides, defeated. She worked hard on them and besides, it isn’t the cakes’ fault Isabela has no manners. With a heavy sigh, she wraps them carefully in parchment and brown paper. They’ll keep overnight, and she can take them to her office tomorrow.

Just in case.


End file.
